


A Quiet Cultivation

by EntreNous



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Developing Relationship, Flowers, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Roses, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 23:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They cover almost everything else in their rambling talks on the phone, after all.  So even though Zach's deliberately not mentioning the bouquets to anyone else, late one night he finds himself saying to Chris, "I told you about the thing with the roses, right?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Cultivation

**Author's Note:**

> Written in reply to the prompt [at my tumblr](http://entrenous88.tumblr.com/) "Pinto, Red Roses" for [juno-magic](http://juno-magic.tumblr.com/).

"Wed woses, how womantic," one of the stagehands says to another in a fake swoon as they walk by Zach's closet of a dressing room. They shamble off, snickering.

He snorts and takes one last gulp of the coffee he picked up on the way to the theater. The large cup's still half full, but he's not so big on lukewarm lattes.

"Roses again!" DeShawn, the producer's assistant, says as she peers around the corner. "It's like you've got a secret admirer or something."

"Or something," Zach agrees, flashing her a grin. 

When she leaves after delivering him a message, he slips into the chair before the lighted vanity mirror and glances at his phone to check if he's gotten any new texts. After a moment with no messages and no more interruptions he sets the phone down on the table next to the vase holding the bouquet. He reaches out to cup the petals of the largest rose in his hand, running a thumb over their silken texture.

**********

They've been arriving like clockwork, two dozen red roses every three days, all the way through Zach's run in Martin McDonagh's latest play.

When he got the first bunch on opening night with no note he assumed they were from his mom. Industry people tend to send whatever's trendy at the moment: stark arrangements mostly made of twisty branches; squat square vases overflowing with tiny blooms. And red roses, they're pretty old-fashioned.

It turns out his mother has no idea what he's talking about when he asks, though ("No, Ma, it's fine -- no, you don't have to _start_ sending me flowers all the time just because I'm in another play -- Ma, no, seriously."). And the delivery guy only shrugs when Zach asks if he might know who put in the standing order. 

He could call the florist and try to grill them about who their regular customer is. After all, it's a little creepy if there's a wide-eyed stalker somewhere trying to get Zach's attention with subtly coded messages based on bud tinges. 

Even if it's all totally innocuous, word spreading throughout the cast that he's got a persistent flower-sending fan makes for some annoying cracks. Most of it Zach laughs off, but one of the understudies keeps waggling his eyebrows and asking if they're from a "gentleman caller". "Yeah, I get that you've read _Glass Menagerie_ , congratulations," Zach finally snaps at him one evening. And then, great, everyone thinks he's touchy about his roses and no one jokes about them at all. 

So maybe it's more aggravation than it's worth, having those flowers arrive all the time. He could probably shut it down pretty easily. But the part of Zach that feels his pulse race for a second whenever he spots the newest delivery waits and whispers, _Let's see where this goes._

**********

Zach has no idea why he brings the roses up to Chris.

No, scratch that, he has some idea. After all, since Zach found himself single again right at the start of the New York run, Chris has kind of come back into his life in a big way. 

Other friends checked in on Zach after the break up too. But now he's past the regularly-scheduled early morning open-eyes-insert-despair and the late night 'Oh god, will I always be _alone_?' gloom. He's even more or less over the spate of nights of drinking way too much and cruising for epically stupid hookups. Everyone who knows him can tell things have calmed down, evened out. So it's no surprise his out-of-town friends have all gone back to their standard infrequent emails and texts.

For some reason, though, even as contact with other friends wanes Chris keeps right on calling. At first it's to tell Zach some Trek thing that came up in the news, or to mention how he's got to check out the new fire pit Chris had put in as soon as he's back in town. 

After a while, though, it seems like Chris phones just to hang out long distance. Sometimes he'll regale Zach with some of the wackier scripts that have come across his desk, or ask his opinion about a project. But mostly they talk bullshit stuff like the podcasts they're listening to ("No, don't tell me about that part of _Serial_ ; I haven't gotten past the justice project lawyers yet!") or the new bikram yoga instructor Chris swears no one else in SoCal has heard about ("You leave in a literal puddle," Chris says reverently). 

Often they eat on the phone with each other, talking with their mouths full while they hash out the random minutiae of their days. Occasionally they'll settle in from their respective couches to watch a movie at the same time that Chris somehow knows all the lines to (and can't always resist saying under his breath). And more than once Zach's fallen asleep with Chris on speaker, the murmur of how he's gotten to a whole new level with his photographs a strangely soothing background.

The play's the main thing going on now, obviously. But it's nice to have something else that's steady in his life, to return every few nights from the stage door scene and a quick drink with friends to the buzz of a text reading, _You up?_

They cover almost everything else in their rambling talks on the phone, after all. So even though Zach's deliberately not mentioning the bouquets to anyone else, late one night he finds himself saying to Chris, "I told you about the thing with the roses, right?"

"Nope," Chris says after a beat, his voice muffled. 

"Oatmeal?" Zach guesses from the sound of it.

"Chia seed pudding," Chris corrects him. "But you were saying -- roses?"

After Zach fills him in, with a few, "It's just a thing" and "no big deal, but" qualifiers sprinkled in, Chris says slowly, "Wow." When Zach doesn't reply straight off, Chris says, "That's cool. Right?"

"I guess?" Until he hears his own tone, Zach doesn't realize how much he's trying for nonchalant. Weirdly he feels like he's in high school, downplaying something when he's not sure how it'll go over. It's probably that it's late, and the exhaustion's starting to creep up on him, as it always does a couple of hours after the curtain call adrenaline high. But Chris's hesitance picking his words in reaction to the story isn't helping. 

"It's kind of old-fashioned, though," Zach continues. There's an edge of exasperation creeping into his voice, and it's odd, because he meant it to be a funny anecdote, not a story to vent annoyance. "I mean, who sends red roses?"

For a moment Chris doesn't say anything, but Zach can't hear him chewing. "Well, it's a classic for a reason," Chris points out. "Whoever's sending them must think you're pretty awesome. Probably hoping it'll make you happy."

"Sure, just -- you send red roses to anyone." He doesn't know why he's feeling impatient with Chris; he's not saying anything in particular that should kick up Zach's irritation. But despite the jibes of the people around the theater who couldn't help but see the deliveries, Zach's kept this one close to his chest otherwise. And for whatever reason, airing it now, even if it's to a guy he can tell practically anything, well. It just makes him a little prickly. 

Chris sounds cautious when he starts talking again. "Maybe. But I think they're sort of special, right? Like, roses, pretty romantic. Red roses," and here he makes a "fyoom!" sound, like he's sweeping his hand up to indicate the zenith of the romantic gesture graph. "Other stuff, you might not have any idea what the person's trying to say, but I guess red roses are sort of...obvious."

Zach laughs at that, and he must be really tired because there's a nasty edge in the sound. He clears his throat, tries to tone it down a little. "Romance done right according to Chris Pine, huh? Anyway, I'm just saying. It's obvious all right, but it's not terribly unique."

Chris goes quiet for long enough that Zach wonders if his eyelids have drooped shut. He can picture Chris sprawled on the huge couch he has in his living room, or maybe huddled on one of the chaises outside, a nubby sweater keeping him almost warm enough in the chill. Suddenly, an intense longing for L.A. wells up in Zach, for those rapidly cooling nights and hanging out at Chris's house after the sun's gone down and neither of them have anywhere in particular they have to be the next day.

At last Chris says distantly, "Nah, I guess not." 

Maybe Chris is more tired than Zach thought; the words sound stagnant and a little maudlin. 

Zach takes a deep breath so he can turn it around, change the subject. But his, "So what else have you been up to?" comes out at the same time that Chris says, "Listen, I should go."

"Oh, yeah, sure. No problem. It's late even there, right?" Zach catches his reflection in the window, frowning at the city lights, and he turns away. "We'll talk soon, okay?"

"Night, Zach," Chris says quietly before the call ends.

**********

When Zach heads to the theater for the next performance, he pushes his way through the stage door, trying to get into that focused character prep mode. He says hey to DeShawn when he passes by her deep in conversation with one of the admins from the front office and nods to the gaggle of lighting guys who look like they're rigging something up.

By the time he's woven his way through the narrow corridors to head to his tiny dressing room, he's starting to get into the groove, but seeing the door closed pulls him up short. It's usually slightly ajar by now, with various people forgetting to pull it completely shut after they bring in mail or deliveries.

He twists the knob, his gaze already locking to the spot on his dressing table where the roses will be placed. Today's one of the delivery days (without meaning to, Zach's been keeping track internally).

But there's nothing there. No new long-stemmed roses -- not even the vase with the already-present flowers just beginning to turn brittle just at the edges. 

"Sorry, pal," one of the custodians calls out. Without realizing it, Zach has stopped short just outside the room, blocking the guy's progress in the hallway. He fumbles through an apology before he shuts himself in alone. 

Everything after that goes along the way it always does up until curtain time. But he can't help but feel uneasy, a little disgruntled. Though he manages to pull it together whenever he's on stage, he's distracted in the wings, almost messing up a costume change that should be simple and practically tripping over the tech with the clipboard in the same spot she always is.

"You good?" the stage manager asks him at intermission; she's squinting at him, assessing.

"Everything's great," Zach tells her. He hunches his shoulders and looks around him for a distraction. This is when he usually heads back to his dressing room to do a few deep breathing exercises and take stock before he readies himself for the next act. She probably can't figure out why he's hanging around backstage, getting underfoot while they do a brisk series of set changes. 

"Just getting some fresh air," Zach explains. Now that he's said it, he has to step outside to the alley behind the theater, so he points at the door leading there inanely and takes a step toward it. 

She shrugs and moves on with her work.

**********

A few more performances go by, and it becomes clearer every day that Zach arrives at the theater that the roses have stopped coming. Zach waits for someone to get in a dig about it, ask what he's done to make his mysterious secret admirer go sour on him. But no one seems to notice.

At least, no one notices until one of his co-stars pauses in the doorway to Zach's dressing room. 

"Pity you don't seem to be getting your roses anymore," June says in a warm voice. She's a regal older woman who's got an insane list of theater credits to her name and is on a first-name basis with all the stagehands. "They were quite lovely ones too." She scans his dressing room as if to make certain. "Or perhaps you've begun to take them home to enjoy them there."

Zach shrugs. "I guess whoever was sending them felt like quitting."

"Ah." She smiles to herself. "I have a wonderful garden in Connecticut; have I told you about it?"

"No. Sounds nice." He figures if she was twenty years younger, at this point she'd take out her phone to show him pictures. But she only leans a weathered hand on the door frame and watches him with a calm, shrewd look. 

"It is a marvelous thing, having a retreat from the city. One day you'll visit me there."

"Yeah, okay," Zach agrees. Even though she's probably just being nice and not extending a genuine offer, he can feel his mood lift at the invitation. 

"You'll enjoy seeing my roses."

"They're probably pretty complicated to grow," Zach ventures to say. He's had some time to think about it, after all, being surrounded by them the past weeks. Sometimes when he first closes his eyes at night he can see the soft brush of crimson petal overlaying petal, the heaviness of the blooms just before they begin to droop. 

She smiles and shakes her head. "They're quite hardy flowers. If you walk about in the older neighborhoods in Brooklyn, you'll see neglected brownstones with plenty of weeds in front -- and plenty of flourishing rose bushes among them if you look past the tangles and brambles. Still, just because something is resilient doesn't mean it doesn't adore tending, and naturally caring for them brings about the best results. Like all things, I suppose." She pauses to say, "You'll see for yourself one day, of course. Be sure to bring your young man with you."

"Well, actually I kind of don't have one right now --" Zach begins to clarify. Without realizing it, he's lifting his hand to the dressing room table where the roses most definitely are not. 

She smiles at him as though he hasn't answered before she departs, a breeze of flowery perfume lingering after her.

**********

It hasn't escaped Zach's notice that the days of no roses are followed by nights of no calls from Chris.

He doesn't put it together right away. They don't speak daily, after all, and Chris clearly has his own life even if Zach knows for sure he's in a lull between projects. There could be meetings, appearances, regular run of the mill things taking up his time.

It's just that Zach didn't realize how accustomed he'd become to having Chris's attention lately. 

Probably he should apologize, though he's not precisely certain what for. Sure, he's used to smoothing over ruffled feathers even when he's done nothing specifically wrong. It's part of getting work as an actor and making his pet projects happen. That feels like an industry thing, though, not something he should have to do with a good friend.

At last one night after taking Skunk and Noah out around the block, he texts, _You okay?_

Skunk's passed out on the floor in front of Zach's chair, completely uninterested in the accessible plate of limp spiraled vegetables masquerading as pasta on the coffee table. Noah's already retired to his favorite sleeping spot on a tatty blanket (right next to the expensive orthopedic doggy bed Zach got him). And Zach's past the point of caring that he's caving, getting in touch with Chris first, not when earlier he found himself starting and erasing way too many random texts to people he barely speaks to. 

When he gives up on the rest of his dinner and scarfs down the last handful of trail mix in his kitchen, he checks his phone again even though he hasn't heard it buzz. Nothing. 

Again before he brushes his teeth. Nope. 

And then as he's settling into bed. No reply.

_Hope things are all right_ he sends before he gets in bed, his blackout shades firmly in place in the loft windows to block out the early morning light. 

After he's lain awake for a full half hour staring at the ceiling, he half rises on his elbows to grab the phone. _Let me know_ he adds, just so Chris can't categorize the earlier messages as something that he needn't reply to.

**********

_All good_ , Zach reads as soon as he stumbles into the kitchen the next day. He's up way too early; usually he rolls out of bed late morning when he's got a show on. So he's all kinds of bleary as he narrows his eyes at Chris's stupid neutral reply and tries to make his pour-over coffee without spilling the wet grounds all over the counter.

Obviously Chris doesn't really feel like dealing with him at the moment. Who knows why? It's probably nothing to do with Zach. Still, it smarts a little to get a blow-off answer.

After his brain starts to come online, he realizes Chris texted him back just a few minutes ago. Which means Chris is up at an ungodly hour for the west coast, yeah, but also that he probably still has his phone handy.

"Yeah, no," Zach mutters to himself, deliberately putting the phone on the counter and turning to get his almond milk from the fridge. He should let the message hang without a reply for a while. Maybe he'll follow up in a few days. That'd be best: send Chris a couple of words about something else entirely, like he's forgotten they're having this half-assed conversation instead of really talking to each other like they're supposed to.

So it's probably because he's half asleep and out of sync when seconds later Zach totally fails on the play-it-cool front and grabs the phone to tap out, _We should catch up soon_.

There's no reply at first.

_Yeah_ , comes the non-committal answer after twelve minutes. And that's just wrong, because Chris is always enthused when Zach says they should hang out or talk. 

Maybe he's just really busy right now, though. 

Maybe he's been seeing someone, and that's why he hasn't been around as much. 

Zach tries never to read too much into random text messages. It's pointless to puzzle over meaning and tone when he doesn't have the familiar inflections in someone's voice or their low laugh to tell him how to take the words. But when Chris is laconic like this, it's typically with reporters asking him the same dumb questions over and over, or with studio people chattering with slick smiles and industry gibberish. It usually means he feels out of his element, uncomfortable or even overwhelmed. Okay, so maybe he's a man of few words with some people, but never with Zach, not before this point, anyway. 

For a moment he stares at the screen and gnaws on his lower lip. _Miss you, man_ , he shoots off finally. 

He's halfway through his second cup of coffee and glaring at the banana-kale-blueberry-protein smoothie that he really doesn't feel like drinking when his phone finally buzzes. 

_You do?_

He huffs out a rush of air, feeling relief sweep through his system. _Of course I do._

When a few moments pass, Zach adds, _You're supposed to say you miss me back, asshole_.

_I miss you back, asshole_ , comes almost immediately. _Talk late tomorrow night, okay? Don't make plans or anything._

Zach taps out, _You're on_ , right away as he grins at Chris's message. He keeps reflexively unlocking his phone to check it as he's stuffing crap into his bag to take to the theater, smiling absently at their conversation still on the screen.

**********

"Hey, Captain Kirk's in the fifth row," the stage manager tells Zach when he slips into the wings the next night. "Whoa, whoa," she adds in alarm when he stumbles; she has to catch his arm to keep him upright.

"Uh, who?" Zach asks in a whisper when he can pick his jaw up off the floor. He's just finished his fourth scene after intermission, a confrontation building to the turning point, and he's completely in character.

"Chris Pine?" she murmurs, a moue of impatience on her lips. "Pretty sure you guys know each other."

His heart thumps and he's got to resist the urge to slide into a position where he can scan the audience. Instead he closes his eyes, flexes and relaxes his fingers a few times while he regains his bearings. There's no time to freak out this unexpected arrival; he's back onstage in the very next scene.

When he opens his eyes and sees the scene unfolding on the stage, he squares his shoulders and gets ready for his entrance. 

It's a relief when the remainder of the play goes smoothly. Zach even manages to fight the temptation to find Chris's face in the crowd. In fact, the last scene, ending with Zach's monologue, goes the best it has in the entire run.

"Right, great; yeah, night," Zach says offhandedly as he passes various people, working on not getting pulled into the post-curtain small talk and vague plans to head down to some unmarked bar on the Lower East Side soon. He's focused on getting to his dressing room and catching his breath before -- well, before whatever this means goes down. 

Not that it means anything, really, Zach tells himself as he hangs up his shirt for wardrobe. But what the hell, Chris just flew across the country so they could talk in person? It's not like the subtlest cue in the world. At least, Zach's pretty sure it isn't.

By the time he's got his make-up swiped off and thrown a scarf over his jean jacket, he's getting jittery, not certain if he should head out to the house and look for Chris there or corral one of the stagehands into scouting out the situation for him.

But then there's a knock at the door. Zach sits up straight before he slumps back a little and says as casually as he can, "Yeah, come on in," all the while his chest is thudding like crazy. 

"Hey, man," Chris says as he pushes the door open and peers inside, his hand still on the knob. He's got a sleek grey pinstripe suit on, no tie, his pale pink shirt unbuttoned maybe one button too many, and he looks exhausted, preoccupied. More to the point, he looks absolutely fucking gorgeous, and Zach can't keep his eyes off him as he swallows, glancing around the room before those arresting blue eyes snap back to Zach's face. 

"Hey. You're here," Zach says. He grasps the edge of the dressing room table and half-turns to face Chris, still sitting in his chair. Already he's got one foot on the floor, and he's about to stand carefully and do the whole one-armed hug with just the right amount of space between them thing when --

"You're amazing," Chris blurts out. 

It's only then that Zach notices Chris has got one hand behind his back, like he's hiding something.

Zach stares at him for a second before he laughs. "Just in general, or --"

Chris actually rolls his eyes. "In the play, man."

"So just to clarify, I'm not amazing in general?"

For a moment Chris looks uncertain. Then his jaw goes tight in determination and he nudges the door behind him shut with his foot. "You're amazing in general," he says, his voice low and hoarse.

Zach's not sure which of them takes the first step forward, but seconds later he's got Chris's jaw cradled in both his hands, Chris's right arm catching him close around the waist.

"Yeah?" Zach asks; his traitorous voice shakes.

Chris smiles at him, slow and languid. "Yeah."

When they kiss it's a rush that leaves Zach's head spinning. Chris makes the most enticing sounds, going short-breathed gratifyingly quickly and shivering in Zach's hold. As Zach's hand slides to the nape of his neck and squeezes, Chris moans and tilts his head back, opens up for him beautifully. The wild surge of want that swells up makes Zach grunt and smack one hand against the door so he can be sure to keep steady on his feet.

Even through the thrumming in his veins there's a tendril of thought trying to make its way to the forefront of Zach's mind, telling him he should make sure this is seriously, actually, really and truly okay before they keep on. But as soon as his fingers tighten on Chris's shoulder, Chris murmurs, "I'm here," and that's enough, that's everything.

Soon enough they're again trading harsh breaths back and forth, twisting against each other and kissing desperately. He's got his thigh wedged in between Chris's legs, Chris's suit jacket yanked half off his shoulders. And as Chris's hands snatch Zach's ass closer, Zach figures they're probably about to find out exactly how little square footage his tiny dressing room has. But just when Zach splays his fingers under Chris's waistband, pressing and stroking at soft skin, Chris's hips buck up, his head thunks back and " _Ow_ ," comes out of his mouth in surprise.

"Ow?" Zach echoes in confusion.

Chris winces and pulls back his left arm from where it's gotten kind of trapped behind his back. When he does, he draws forward the bouquet of red roses still in his hand. The flowers are wobbly and bent on their stems, some of the petals bruised to dark scarlet, probably from when Zach shoved Chris frantically up against the door. 

Zach snickers and lets his forehead fall forward on Chris's shoulder. "Those for me?"

Chris sighs, but quickly retorts, "Nope. My plan was to give them to the first random person backstage who would make out with me. I'm totally a gentleman like that."

Zach lifts his head to kiss him hard, nipping at his lips before laughing into the pink shell of his ear. "You absolute idiot," he murmurs happily as he rubs his smooth cheek against Chris's stubbled one. 

"Oh, _I'm_ the idiot," Chris says, incredulous. But he massages the small of Zach's back over his t-shirt with his free hand, embraces him again tightly with the arm that had gotten twisted back. It makes Zach's knees go a little wonky, maybe because of the heady feel of being so close, but possibly because Chris ends up whapping Zach with the roses in the process. 

"Why didn't you just --" Zach leaves the sentence hanging, because he can't stop grinning. He noses at Chris's neck, at the sheen of sweat there, and bites lightly; Chris breathes out a pleased laugh. When Zach shifts back slightly he can't resist running the tip of his index finger over Chris's smiling lips, now satisfyingly kiss-swollen. 

"Oh, why?" Chris asks, blinking when he realizes Zach's really wondering. "You were dealing with break-up crap, and at first I didn't want to put that on you." He glances down, gold-brown lashes brushing the barely visible dark smudges under his eyes. "But I couldn't keep setting it aside, the way I felt about you. I just wasn't sure yet if there was something there on your end too, you know?" 

Zach thumbs at the corner of Chris's mouth, sweeps up over the jut of his cheekbone. "I know," he answers seriously.

Chris gazes at Zach, licks his lips. "So. Do you think you, maybe, um. Feel that way too?"

Zach gently takes the flowers out of Chris's hand, sets them down within reach on the dressing table. Later he'll ask someone at the theater to dig up an empty vase so the blooms can sit on display right where they belong, even partly crushed as they are. He'll point them out to June later; he'll show them to everyone. 

"Are you kidding me?" he asks, tipping Chris's chin up to kiss him again. "Red roses, man. How could I resist?"

***~*~* the end *~*~***


End file.
